


That Which Drew From Out the Boundless Deep

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blessings, Holy Water, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Christianity, Oral Sex, Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temptations, light roleplay, the ocean makes Aziraphale broody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 16:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: “Exactly how much of history did you spend worrying about what Hell would do to me if they found out about things?”Aziraphale does some early-morning thinking by the seaside, Crowley does some sleepy comforting, and sometimes a spot of harmless temptation makes everything better.





	That Which Drew From Out the Boundless Deep

**Author's Note:**

> "And may there be no moaning of the bar  
When I put out to sea,  
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,  
Too full for sound and foam,  
When that which drew from out the boundless deep  
Turns again home."
> 
> \--Alfred, Lord Tennyson

_The South Downs, sometime after the end of the world_

It is so easy, falling back in love with the sea.

The last time Aziraphale had lived seaside was on Iona in the late eighth century—he’d popped in on what was supposed to be a one-and-done inspiration job for the Book of Kells, but you didn’t see a scriptorium like that every day, did you, so one morning the abbot noticed a new brother at Lauds, and that was the end of that.

Those quiet years come rushing back to him on mornings like this, how he used to stand lookout for hours, motionless until a boat appeared and he ran back to the abbey with a shout to let the brothers know they had visitors. As the century waned and turned and waxed again, the years grew less quiet and the visitors less kindly. He left in 807 to make sure that beautiful manuscript made it safely to Kells, and after that he decided to stay inland. Well, as inland as one could get on an island, in a kingdom whose young capital grew up by a river.

First light begins to stretch itself out across the horizon. Aziraphale can still remember the first time it ever did that, and She pronounced it good.

He had been good then, too. Hadn’t he?

Crowley is coming down from the house. Aziraphale doesn’t hear Crowley open the back door or see Crowley walking through the garden, but he knows Crowley is coming all the same.

A cold wave breaks over Aziraphale’s feet, and he sinks a little further into the sand. The breeze picks up. He feels Crowley’s arms around his waist, Crowley’s kiss against his neck.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” Aziraphale asks.

“Woke up,” says Crowley, shrugging. This answer can in fact mean anything from _I was lonely_ to _you ruined my brilliant plan for an early morning shag_ to _you are my personal heater and you wandered off, how am I thus betrayed. _“You?”

“I’m always up.”

“I know.” Crowley’s voice is gentle; he’s probably about thirty-seven percent still asleep. “But not always out here.”

“I’d forgotten, that’s all,” Aziraphale says, wiggling his toes in the sand. “How nice it is seaside.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered,” Crowley mutters, “could you bless all of it?”

“What?” Crowley feels Aziraphale’s spine stiffen under his embrace.

“Relax, just—call it professional curiosity. What’s the policy on blessing the whole ocean? It does come pre-salted, after all.”

That at least gets a snort out of Aziraphale. “Well, ah, depends on what you’re blessing it for, probably. Most Christians bless it fresh for baptism, for example, even if it’s been blessed before for other reasons. The entire thing, I think it depends on if you’re considered to have the authority—”

“’M not talking about humans, angel.”

“Human blessings work, darling, at least enough to make it dangerous to you.”

“Well, if they’ve blessed the ocean, they haven’t melted me yet.”

Aziraphale wraps his arms over Crowley’s, hugging himself. “Please don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry. Still a bit groggy, to be honest.”

“I don’t know.”

“Nah, I’m not fully awake, I swear.”

“No, I mean—proper angelic lustral water. The whole ocean. I don’t know if I could.”

“Not your department?”

“It’s not that. I…” _I came out here in the darkness to stand at the edge and remember when I felt like I was doing it right._

The sky is noticeably lighter now.

The evening and the morning. Then the firmament. Then the waters.

And God saw that it was good.

“I don’t know if I have the power to,” Aziraphale clarifies, trying to swallow the bitter taste blooming at the back of his mouth. “Now. Anymore.”

“You haven’t Fallen, angel. You’d know. _I’d_ definitely know.”

Bless Crowley for staying behind him, for staring out at the ocean with him, for not making him try to talk about this and look his lover in the eyes at the same time.

“I know it must seem—what would I lose, after all, Heaven doesn’t feel like my home, this does, and I wouldn’t want you to be other than you are, Crowley, really I don’t—”

“Shh,” says Crowley, in the way that’s for soothing, not shushing. “I know.”

“I shouldn’t worry, it shouldn’t matter. It just wasn’t the way I thought it was.”

Crowley just holds him. The tide is coming in now, properly, soaking the hem of his pajama pants. “That’s the hardest part,” he says. “The moment when you realize you were wrong. When everything tilts and you don’t know how to right yourself.”

“You seem to have done it.”

“I have more than a six-thousand year head start on you. Good news is, you’re through the worst of it.”

Aziraphale snuggles back against Crowley. “I was thinking about the last time I lived by the sea. When I was with the brothers on Iona.”

“I remember that. We worked out our little arrangement the next time I saw you, didn’t we?”

“That’s right.” One of the reasons Aziraphale had stayed on Iona as long as he had was because it gave him time to consider all sides of the proposal Crowley had made several hundred years earlier in Wessex. Sometimes it was absolutely necessary to hide in an abbey at the edge of the known world in order to have a good think. “Weren’t you the one who suggested we kiss to seal it?”

“Eh, that’s the way we signed contracts in those days. And don’t pretend like you didn’t miss all the kissing that went on in Rome. Weren’t shy about open mouths, the Romans.”

“_You _were the one who always insisted on a holy kiss, when the Christians brought that into fashion.”

“For the last time, angel, it was the kiss of _peace_, and I never understood your reticence.”

“Imagine if Hell had seen you exchanging the kiss of peace with an angel!”

“Exactly how much of history did you spend worrying about what Hell would do to me if they found out about things?”

Aziraphale finally turns his back to the sea and faces Crowley, gripping his shoulders. “_So much _of it, don’t you understand? I was _worried_, and _afraid_, and what’s even worse is that I _didn’t know it_. I couldn’t bring myself to say, ‘I feel this way because I care madly for Crowley’ because it would have upended everything I thought I knew. I _agonized _on Iona about whether I was doing the right thing, and then I agonized about what would happen to you if we got caught. And even now I still worry about whether I’m good, even though it doesn’t matter, because I belong here, with you, and you love me, even if—”

_Even if Heaven doesn’t_.

Crowley’s eyes flare with understanding.

“Angel,” he says. “In all this time agonizing over being good, over me being safe, did you ever think about what would happen to you if things went pear-shaped?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“I think you have your answer about whether you’re good, then.”

“That isn’t it,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “I thought my side was—I thought they wouldn’t hurt me.”

Crowley sighs a fond sigh. “You know,” he says, “I wouldn’t have you other than as you are, either.”

“What, too trusting and set in my ways?”

“Exactly the opposite. I’ve spent the last six thousand years watching you change, and in ways that I would say are for the better, but even today you’re still the same angel who gave away a flaming sword to two humans who were suddenly very alone, and very scared.”

Aziraphale blinks.

The ocean continues to crash around their ankles.

“Come back up to the house, love,” Crowley says, covering one of Aziraphale’s hands with his own.

“Alright,” Aziraphale whispers. He laces his fingers through Crowley’s as they make their way back up through the garden. “You know what I like about the ocean? It hasn’t changed very much. Between day one and day two-million-and-something.”

“It’s higher than it once was.”

“I know you’re a demon, darling, but you don’t have to spoil _everything_.”

“What else have I spoiled, other than you, rotten, for centuries?” Crowley asks as he holds the door open.

“I seem to recall you saw _The Mousetrap _without me and then _told me how it ended_.”

“I was short on things to add to my report that week,” Crowley says as he leads Aziraphale to their bedroom. “‘Inspired angelic wrath’ did wonders for my next performance review.” He closes the door and opens the curtains so they can see the sky continue to brighten.

“You’re a demon! You could have lied! I did it all the time.”

Crowley arches an eyebrow. “Did you, now?”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, as Crowley crowds him against the bed. “You know. Embroidered a bit.”

“Is that so.”

“Never lied about blessings, happy to do those.”

“Naturally.”

“More along the lines of, saying I’d thwarted you when really I’d just gotten you drunk.”

“Because you didn’t want anything bad to happen to me.”

Aziraphale nods. “That’s it. That’s it exactly. They’d leave you alone if they thought I had it handled.”

Crowley takes one of Aziraphale’s hands in his own, brings it to his lips, and kisses it, reverently, fervently, the way vassals did when they swore fealty. “Do you want me to—”

“Yes.”

“You have to let me finish the question.”

“You were going to ask if you could do the thing with the tempting.”

“Yes.”

“So that I can give in and it’s safe.”

“Yes.”

“So, yes, do that.”

“And what do you say if you want me to stop?”

“Eden.”

“Good. Sit, then.” Aziraphale obeys, and Crowley straddles him. “Now kiss me, angel.”

“Shouldn’t,” says Aziraphale, turning his head away.

“But you can,” Crowley murmurs, speaking low in Aziraphale’s ear. “And you want to. Think of how good it would feel, pressing your lips against mine, soft and warm, I’d even let you put your tongue in my mouth. Come now, just a taste.”

“Well…” Aziraphale does love to taste things. “Just the once.” He leans forward and presses one closed-mouth kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“Ah-ah,” says Crowley, “you know you want more than that. Come and get it, angel. It’s yours for the taking.” And he _winks._

“You insufferable thing,” Aziraphale says, before he fists his hands in Crowley’s pajama shirt and lays a proper one on him. Aziraphale licks into Crowley’s mouth, bites at his lips, forget a taste, this is a fucking feast. They’ve kissed each other like this for nearly a year now, even this new part of their relationship is no longer so new, but it still makes Aziraphale feel like he’s burning in the very best way.

“Surely that can’t be all you want,” Crowley says when Aziraphale relents. “You can have anything, you know. I’m entirely at your service.” Aziraphale shifts beneath him. “Oh, that gave you some ideas, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your cock, sweet angel. A kiss like that, makes your body do things, doesn’t it? Makes it cry out for more.” Crowley grabs one of Aziraphale’s hands and licks across his palm. “I can give you more. But you have to ask for it.”

“I should—exercise a bit of self-control, probably.”

“Ah, but why? Willing partner, secret fuck-cottage by the sea, no one ever has to know. Why hold back?”

“It’s what angels do.”

“You’re still an angel whether you hold back or not. If you give in, then giving in is also something angels do.” Crowley leans down, his nose almost brushing Aziraphale’s, and says words he’s been dying to say for most of human history. “Forget it all, angel. Heaven isn’t watching. For once in your life just tell me what you want and let me give it to you.”

Crowley watches with a smug little smile as Aziraphale’s pupils blow wide. That smile is jostled slightly as Aziraphale shoves Crowley off his lap and between his knees. “Suck me,” Aziraphale says, and suddenly all their clothing is neatly folded on the other side of the room. “And don’t stop until I say so.”

Crowley doesn’t need telling twice. He licks the head of Aziraphale’s cock, savors the taste of him, the bitten-off moan that escapes from him, then swallows him down and sucks in earnest.

Aziraphale grabs a handful of Crowley’s hair. “That’s right,” he says, “all that tempting, and now who’s the one on their knees? Giving pleasure to a member of the heavenly host, what would Hell say?”

Crowley pulls away to answer, “‘Good job, Crowley, one successfully corrupted angel,’” before Aziraphale yanks his hair and says, “I _told _you not to stop,” and Crowley gets back to business.

“So short-sighted, Hell is,” Aziraphale continues. “Thinking that sex equals corruption. What utter fools. You poor, misguided demon, thinking you could tempt me into some terrible sin, when in fact I’ve just bamboozled you into an act of devotion—for the love of—fuck, you’re good with your tongue.” He braces himself against the bed with one arm. His other hand rests on Crowley’s head. (An old gesture of benediction, that.) “Don’t stop, love, please don’t stop.”

And Crowley doesn’t, not til Aziraphale’s coming in his mouth.

Crowley is arguably the last being who should know anything about sacraments, much less be thinking about them at this particular moment, and yet he is, because if he had to imagine what grace feels like, it would the way he feels right now.

“Alright, darling?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Aziraphale grabs it and presses a fealty-kiss against it. “Come up here, then,” the angel says.

Crowley stretches out across the bed and Aziraphale braces himself above him. “Shall I kiss you?” he asks. Crowley nods. “That was perfect,” Aziraphale says, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s shoulder (oh, how he has grown to love Crowley’s shoulders). “That was exactly what I needed.”

“Good pivot in the middle there,” Crowley says, breath hitching as Aziraphale kisses his stomach. “Come up with that in the moment?”

“Believe it or not, yes.”

“Oh, I believe it. You’ve always been clever. That, for example,” he gasps when Aziraphale drops a kiss at his hip crease, “that’s exceptionally smart.”

Aziraphale continues in this manner for quite a while, taking Crowley apart slowly and quietly with his mouth, no rush, no haste, just the devastating full, concentrated attention of an eternal ethereal being.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley manages, once the angel has made it all the way back up to Crowley’s neck.

“Yes, my dear?”

“What do you think would happen if you tried to bless me?”

Aziraphale leaves off sucking at Crowley’s neck so he can look Crowley in the eyes (those golden, perfect eyes, like the fresh sun that’s shining through their window now). “Crowley, what do you think I’ve been doing for the past half hour?”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly. What has all this been, if not an extremely thorough laying on of hands?”

Laughter bubbles up from Crowley’s chest until it is a full-throated howl of glee. Neither of them cry easily, Aziraphale has learned, or at least, neither of them cry easily unless they’ve laughed so hard first that crying is the necessary next step toward continued relief of their emotions.

“Angel,” Crowley finally manages, flinging one arm over his head, “I love you, desperately and embarrassingly beyond reason. What would our former employers say?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale deadpans, “because we’ve foiled them with our resourcefulness and cunning.”

“Perhaps the only time we’ve been truly competent since four-thousand-four B.C.”

This causes them to collapse with laughter all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Crossing the Bar" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. By his request this is almost always the last poem printed in collections of his work.
> 
> Millions of thanks to [this tumblr post](https://gayforgoodomens.tumblr.com/post/186339210889/when-you-think-about-it-crowley-and-aziraphale) by gayforgoodomens for all those headcanons about Aziraphale and Crowley kissing through the ages.
> 
> The type of holy water usually found in stoups and fonts in churches (the kind used for general blessings, crossing yourself, the asperges, etc) is indeed called lustral water, and I have no idea why we do not call it that all the time, as it is possibly the coolest church vocabulary thing I've ever heard.
> 
> If you liked this fic, do go on and smash that kudos button! I would be beyond thrilled to hang out with you in the comments.


End file.
